Hope For The Hopeless
by Fic Fairy
Summary: This is the story of a bond between a cardiothoracic surgeon and her young intern that lasts all the way to The White House and head on into one hell of a marriage crisis...
1. Chapter 1

**Hope for the Hopeless**

"What will you do now?" Leighton asks. Its several minutes since my husband was taken away in handcuffs, and the god awful truth is that it already feels like hours. Michael and I have always been very independent souls, more than capable of surviving days or weeks without each other if need be, but at this moment I want nothing more to run after him, pound my fists against the side of the police car and beg him in desperate screams not to leave me.

For all the good it would do.

I ponder Leighton's question, anything rather than continue imagining Michael in the back seat of a panda car, an image that in all honesty is almost too much for me to bear. What will I do now, that's one hell of a question? I mean I'd like nothing more than to go home, crawl under my duvet and stay there for the rest of my life, probably eventually, if you'll pardon my drama queen sensibilities, dying of a broken heart. But then again, if I'm to think practically, and as a newly single woman whose house is highly likely to be seized as part of an ongoing police investigation I probably should, I really need to get a grip and come up with some practical solutions as to how exactly I'm going to get myself out of the mess my husband seems to have got me into.

I look at Leighton, "I guess I'll come back to work tomorrow morning and start rebuilding the reputation my husband destroyed."

"Good girl." Leighton smiles, squeezes my arm in a fatherly gesture. I pull away, as if his touch has burnt me. I knows its an overreaction but I can't help it. Leighton and I go back some way, but not far enough. Not enough for me to accept his sympathy, his support. There are only two people in my life with whom I can let my guard drop enough to do that. One is gone now, heading away from me to the nearest police station, and then in all likelihood into a jail cell, with a divorce between us inevitably following.

Which still leaves one, I realise.

And suddenly I know exactly what I'm going to do.

~

I book into a hotel under an assumed name. I don't know yet what the full impact of VRSAgate will be, but given Fiona Dunn's untimely demise at Michael's hands I suspect it will be huge and I'm not yet ready to face reporters outside our house or banging on my hotel room door. My hotel is nice; a lot nicer than I probably deserve, but then I don't know how long the luxury I've long enjoyed since I married Michael will continue, and figure I might as well enjoy it while I can.

In my room I undress, letting my clothes drop to the floor in an untidy heap, too drained and tired to want to be bothered with bending down to pick them up. Then I step under the power shower, turning the temperature gauge to make the water as scolding hot as I can. I need it. Need to feel the dirt and grime, all be it purely in my head, wash away.

Afterwards my skin hurts and I know I've overdone it, but in some odd way it does make me feel better. At least I feel clean now, or at least as clean as I'm ever going to feel again thanks to that bastard.

Ah. Anger. Its coming. I knew it would. It was bound to.

I wrap myself in a robe then head for the mini bar. Its a bad idea and I know it, not that that stops me. I pull out a bottle of red wine, open it, and slosh out a glassful. Then I curl up on the bed, glass in hand and reach for the phone.

The usual rigmarole follows, but eventually, after passwords and security checks and the like, the process which never fails to mystify me is finally complete and I get put through to the person I actually want to speak to.

"Well if it isn't the second best cardiothoracic surgeon in the world..."

In spite of myself, and my godforsaken low mood, I can't help smiling. There's something about just hearing her voice that puts a smile on my face no matter what's going on in my life.

"First best these days." I correct her, "You're not practising. Other priorities."

She snorts, "If you call being a clothes horse and cuddling other people's babies a priority then yes honey, I guess I do. But not for much longer Constance Beauchamp, give it a year and I'll be back, giving you a run for your money."

I believe her too. Having seen her work first hand I know it'll take more than a career break to stop her excelling in theatre.

"Anyway." She says, suddenly sounding serious and proving not for the first time that she knows me a thousand times better than most, "you didn't call to tease me for old times sake. That I can hear from the tone in your voice. What's happened Cons?"

I sigh, knock back my wine and then after a deep breath, finally manage to speak again, without bursting into tears as I feared I might. "Are you near a computer?"

"Erm, well right now I'm just near my husband, and paper copy of a very dull speech he's giving tomorrow and that I'm trying to jazz up, but," I hear her get to her feet at the other end of the line, and whisper my name to her husband, presumably by way of excusing herself from the room, "I can find a computer. I mean this is The White House. There must be one somewhere..."

~

Yes. That's right. The woman on the phone, my random shoulder to try on, is none other than the First Lady of the United States of America. I know what you're thinking, how the fucking hell did that happen? Truth be known, Abbey and I find ourselves asking that question rather a lot too.

She wasn't the First Lady when I met her. She was, however, a particularly fierce Resident at Saint Angelos Hospital, New Hampshire, and I was a bright eyed young intern desperate to make my mark. I riled her at first, mainly due to some terribly unsubtle brown nosing, but, well, circumstances conspired to bring us together professionally, leading to a friendship that has lasted ever since.

I assumed, originally, that when her husband – the very sexy and charismatic Josiah Bartlet - took the meteoric rise to fame in the world of politics, and the two of them took their place in The White House, via the New Hampshire Governors Mansion, that I'd never really see them again. But Abbey wasn't that fickle, hence the fact that security checks aside, I can still – almost – get hold of her whenever the fancy takes me. Occasionally I do, I admit, take advantage of this fact and call her for my own amusement, just because I can – Jed's second inauguration being a case in point; I rang her at one of the balls to mock the hat she wore for the ceremony itself – but often I call because like tonight, I need her. Because besides Michael, she's the only true friend I've ever had.

~

"So what am I looking at?"

She's obviously found a computer; and I picture her, sat in front of it, the phone in the crook of her neck, waiting expectantly for what I'm about to say.

"Go to Google UK news." I figure it'll be easier this way. Easier if I don't have to explain. If I don't have to tell her what he's done. All the same, its still not easy. "Search..." I swallow hard, fighting back tears, then force the words out, "... Michael Beauchamp."

I hear a sigh on the other end of the line. I'm not surprised. While I have been utterly enamoured by Abbey's husband since day one, she has been utterly unimpressed by mine. Even at my wedding she did her best to dissuade me from going through with it. For all the good it did her. And me.

"What's the jackass done now?"

"Please Abbey." I say softly, aware now that tears are trickling down my cheeks, "Just look for yourself."

There's a lengthy silence, punctuated only by the occasional sharp intake of breath and another very dark sounding 'jackass' which has always been Abbey's name of choice for Michael. And god how right she was. As she reads, I sit on the other end of the phone and cry, unable to stop myself now, finally letting go the tears I've held in so well up to now.

Eventually she speaks. No prize for guessing what her reaction is.

"Fucking jackass."

That finishes me off and I let out a pathetic tortured sob, unworthy of a grown woman. Unworthy of a human in fact. I sound like a wounded animal and I know it. I start to apologise but Abbey instantly silences me.

"No. Now don't you apologise. You've got nothing to apologise for. Oh God Connie, I don't know what to say. Actually, no, yes, I do." There's another silence as she apparently returns to surfing the web momentarily, which I find quite odd, until she speaks again, "British Airways. 03.40am flight from Heathrow. Get on it. I'll have a car pick you up at the airport. Just get here."

I feel instantly comforted by her words. For one, I want to, need to see her, and any escape from the UK has to be a good thing. Not to mention the fact that it feels good to have someone else take control, tell me what to do; I don't like it from most people. In fact, from most people it riles me, but Abbey isn't 'most people'. Not by a long shot.

And yet, as my heart is already on the plane, my body already curled up in a guest room in the White House residence, my head is objecting most vociferously.

"Abbey. I can't. You can't be associated with me. Jed can't be associated with me. Not now." It hurts to say it, but I know I have to. Abbey is an amazing woman, but on occasion she is prone to forget her office and get carried away with things. And I suspected this was one such occasion; not least because I was already imagining the headlines that would be thrown up by 'Doctor Death's' wife shacking up in the White House.

Not that Abbey is having any of it. "Constance Beauchamp, you get that flight. Otherwise I'm coming to Holby to wave a placard saying 'Free the VRSA jackass'. Do I make myself clear?

Crystal clear actually.

Apparently, I'm getting that flight.


	2. Chapter 2

"The adorable Constance?"

I smile at Jed's words, although truth be known, the last thing I feel like doing right now is smiling. Grimacing, yes. Beating the non adorable husband of the adorable Constance into a particularly messy pulp, most definitely, but certainly not smiling.

"How is she?"

I don't know how to begin to explain to Jed how Connie is. I mean I've been aware for some time of her husband's jackass status but had no idea how bad things were actually going to get, and truth be known I'm absolutely incandescent with rage that we've reached this point. That's he's done this. Like I said, I knew he was a fool, but this transcends that. This is something else entirely.

In the end I decide that its best to come straight to the point, "Michael's been arrested for fraud. And manslaughter."

"Manslaughter?" Jed's eyes shoot practically through the top of his head, and although I can see that like me he's concerned for Connie, I can also tell that its crossed his mind that somewhere out there, there are photos that tie our family with theirs. Connie and Michael's wedding photos for one; our three daughters sat at Connie's feet, all lilac satin and proud smiles at getting to be flower girls. There are others too; Connie and Michael – well Connie really, but Michael tagged along – were my guests are Jed's first Inauguration; not to mention numerous vacations spent up at the farm.

As if confirming my suspicions, Jed gets to his feet; "You should warn Toby. There may be questions. And I'll get up to speed with what's happened."

My heart sinks a little at 'warning Toby' not least because I know Toby will be instantly flustered by the news and may run the risk of bursting a blood vessel fairly quickly. I admire Toby very much; but if I'm honest I still feel, privately of course, that CJ was a much better press secretary. I look at Jed hopefully, "Can I speak to CJ? Toby scares me."

In spite of the stress on his face, Jed cracks a brief smile as he nods, although said smile is extinguished fairly quickly when I drop my second bombshell.

"Abigail," he says, looking at me disapprovingly over the top of his glasses, "we've talked about this before; must you continually complicate my presidency with your wild ideas?"

I glare back at him, "I've offered my support to one of our oldest friends Jed. If you think that's a wild idea, then you've lost touch with reality..."

XXX

She's right. Of course she's right. And it takes me mere seconds to realise it. A year ago, it might have taken slightly longer, but following my most recent health scare, not to mention the knowledge that I'll be out of office within a year, I am slowly becoming more human.

I move to her side and put my arm around her, "Of course." My hand only has to rest on her shoulder to feel the tension in it, and I feel guilty for any part I might have played in that. "She can stay as long as she likes Abbey."

"Thank you... and she can come to the dinner tomorrow night?"

Her final statement come question stuns me, until I look down and see that she's grinning, thus making it apparent that she doesn't, for one second, expect Connie to attend the dinner we're hosting for no less than four Heads of State the next evening. I smile back at her, playing along, "I doubt she'd feel up to it Abigail. Better she stay in the residence with a quart of ice cream and a nice blanket."

"You could be right." she replies 'thoughtfully', although her playful smile remains, "Sounds nice. Can I stay with her?"

I give her a black look, but only in jest, "Abigail Barrington Bartlet, now my dear, you are just plain pushing your luck." I lean over, and kiss her gently on the forehead, knowing that for all her smiles she's worried sick about our friend and needs my utmost support, "Go and talk to CJ... before the World's Press does..."

XXX

There are certain parties in the White House whose appearance in my office always spell trouble. Josh is an offender. Bartlet daughter number 2 is a second. But the most prolific and definitely the most likely troublemaker is the one so appropriately titled 'First Lady'.

Abbey and I have a friendship based on – well – in all honestly, I'm not entirely sure. Mutual respect would be a good place to start. A friendship borne of shear frustration with the number one man in both our lives would be another. Not to mention the fact that we're both partial to a drink or two. Or three. Or four. Or ten. Just don't tell the press.

Usually a visit from Abbey means one of two things. One. She's decided in her infinite wisdom to do something that is completely the opposite of what would be in the best interests of the party / presidency / world (delete as appropriate). Two. She's decided a drinking session is in order. And actually, arguably, two usually directly led to one, since it tends to result in a hangover for me that meant I wouldn't be able to do my job efficiently for several days afterwards.

Tonight however, it takes me some time to work out exactly what her presence in my office is all about. It isn't all feisty-feisty, bravado and bombshells; or merriment and Martinis. It's just her, looking uncomfortable, fairly miserable and in fact, when I look really closely, not that far away from bursting into tears.

I offer her a seat – contemplate offering her a drink - and then think better of it given the fact I am due to greet delegations from 4 different countries over the next 12 hours and instead just settle for asking if she's alright.

Wrong question.

"Connie's husband has been charged with manslaughter." She sighs, "You remember Connie?" She adds as an afterthought, "My British friend."

I don't need reminding. I indeed remember Connie. I also remember Connie's husband. He got disgustingly drunk at one of the balls on the day of the President's First Inauguration, cornered me in an elevator, stuck his hand up my skirt (no mean feat in a ballgown - he's quite an expert) and told me that he thought "tall birds were really fucking sexy".

All the same, the manslaughter comes as a bit of a shock. Sexual harassment I could have believed, but manslaughter seems a bit out of character even for him.

"Ok." I reach for my day book, and pen, ready to take notes. I'm still to establish whether this is a social call, with Abbey looking for tea or sympathy, or not, but regardless of that, as the President's Chief of Staff, I have to think of the professional as well as the personal angle. "Well I don't need to ask if there's anything tangible to link you do I?" - As an regular visitor to the First Ladies office, I'd seen the photograph of her and Connie on her desk. A photograph of them at the same ball where Connie's husband tried to seduce me in his own inimitable style, taken by a professional photographer. One thing I've learnt about professional photographers is that they keep copies, and can become very unprofessional at any whiff of a scandal.

Abbey shakes her head in response to my question, "I was at their wedding. We all were. There's plenty to link us. Its just that no one's found it yet."

"They will." I tell her gently, "I assume the press already have the story."

She sighs, "All the UK news sites are running with it."

At her words, I pull up a browser window and run a quick search, scanning the story briefly once I find it. When I'm done, I look back up at her. "Ouch."

"I'll give him 'ouch' if I ever get my hands on him." For a second there's a spark apparent in her that wasn't there previously, as she allows her anger to take over. It quickly fades though as she turns her attention back to me, "CJ, I invited her over. To stay here. And," she holds her hands up in what I think is meant to be a calming gesture, in anticipation of an explosion from me, "I know that its possibly not my best ever move. And I'm sorry if it makes more work for you but," she pauses, biting her bottom lip, and taking a sharp intake of breath that is a surefire sign that she's fighting back tears, "she's my friend. I have to..."

Tossing my notebook to one side, the personal being allowed to win over the professional for just a second, I move around my desk to her, crouching at her side and putting my arm around her shoulder, looking her right in the eyes to silence her.

"I know." I say softly, "I know you do Abbey. I know what she means to you."

Its not hard to see. I've not spent that much time with Abbey and Connie, but I've been around them enough to see that they have one of those friendships that have always intrigued me, that I've always been jealous of, but yet that I've never managed to find for myself. I mean, I have female friends, I have Abbey. And Donna. But I don't have a friend like Abbey has in Connie.

They finish each others sentences. They communicate without speaking. They're more like sisters than friends. And when Zoe was kidnapped and Abbey was at her lowest ebb, when neither the President or her other daughters or I could get through to her, Connie could.

If that goes both ways, it's little wonder Abbey wants to be there for her.

After a brief hug I get to my feet, "Don't worry about a thing. I'll handle it."

"Even Toby?"

I laugh softly, "Even Toby." It never fails to amuse me that everyone in The White House – and I mean everyone, the President included – communicates with Toby through me, because they're scared of his Press Secretary rages, and leaves me wondering if there was a similar hierarchy involved when I was in the job.

Heading back to my computer screen as Abbey goes to leave I glance at the image of Michael Beauchamp included with the news story about his downfall, remembering the elevator incident once again.

"Abbey," I call out to her, "did I ever tell you that he hit on me once?"

She laughs sardonically, "Somehow CJ, that really doesn't surprise me..."


End file.
